The Fool
by Lago Lindari
Summary: It was at 10:36 p.m. of a grey, heavy Thursday that Morgan for the first time found himself with an armful of Dr. Spencer Reid, pushing him up against the door of his kitchen and kissing him senseless.


**The Fool**

_The Fool is the spirit in search of experience.  
He is seemingly unconcerned that he is standing  
on a precipice, apparently about to step off._

_ooo_

It was 18:56, according to the ugly clock hanging on the wall of the break room, when Morgan for the first time kissed Spencer Reid.

Morgan was leaning against the counter, rubbing at his tired eyes, which ached after way too many hours in front of a computer screen – the hint of a migraine was throbbing behind his tired eyelids, and he was goddamn starving. It had been a very long day; Morgan hated being stuck in the bullpen, since that meant they were not out chasing one of the too many people that needed to be chased. He was well aware that, just because no one admitted to needing their help – it did not mean the shadow people had disappeared. There were always more; no matter how hard they tried. Always more.

Yes. Morgan was in a foul mood, and right about now he found moping endlessly appealing.

And that was when Reid poked him lightly on the shoulder, interrupting his dark musings, and handed him a mug of steaming, so very welcome coffee.

"I took the liberty of adding some sugar," the kid said, somewhat shyly – his eyes shining with the reflection of the tiny, bright smile that hovered on his lips. "You looked like you needed it."

"God, pretty boy – you are a blessing," Morgan said, as a surge of utter love for the scrawny boy rose in his chest – and leaned forward to press his lips against Reid's in a quick, soft peck.

It was at 18:56 and several, important seconds that Morgan realized what he had done: right about the time a stunned, wide eyed Spencer Reid managed to spill most of the steaming coffee on his crotch.

_ooo_

The first three days and a half had been lived under breath. Everything seemed dangerously still, as if the world itself had stopped its motion to hang around and wait for them to make a move; the unnatural quiet heaved on their shoulders, reflected in their furtive glances, their tattered lumps of conversation.

(The morning of the first day, at 8:34, Morgan had stepped in the elevator and had pretty much crashed into the very distracted Dr. Spencer Reid who stood right behind the doors. He'd blurted an apology, his hands reaching out to grab Reid's arms – Reid had looked at him with huge eyes, and Morgan's breath had just stuck in his throat. The ride had been achingly slow – Morgan for some reason all too painfully aware of the line of Reid's throat. He'd tried not to imagine what it would feel like to trace it with his tongue, and he'd epically failed.

Somewhere between the second and the third floor, Morgan had sworn he'd never take an elevator again.)

They tiptoed around each other, caught in a clumsy, dysfunctional dance. Morgan would hazard a glance towards Reid when he thought the kid would be too absorbed to notice; and at times, he'd feel the weight of Reid's gaze rest softly on his back, making the exposed skin on his neck shiver. Morgan would be careful not to turn around until the weight was gone – he thought his back felt imperceptibly colder, when that happened – and then he'd mentally slap himself for it. Fool.

Before the fourth day begun, they'd been on their way to a small town near Davenport, where the corpse count was already at three and the clock was ticking with the inexorable steadiness of a bomb – and the whole thing had been forgotten. They had groped in the dark, they'd grown tense and stressed and _angry_ as they desperately tried to think faster, think _better_. When they'd finally cracked the case, Morgan had stood by as Reid nearly broke down in tears of bitter frustration beside the body of the pregnant woman they hadn't been in time to save. He'd placed his hand on Reid's shoulder, and had just stood there, in silence.

That evening, Morgan had gone to knock softly on Reid's door. When no one had answered, Morgan had hesitated perhaps a second too long before walking back to his room. Light was already filtering through the blinds when he'd finally been able to fall asleep; his dreams had been fuzzy, and had left a sick, aching feeling in the pit of his stomach.

_ooo_

It was at 10:36 p.m. of a grey, heavy Thursday that Morgan for the first time found himself with an armful of Dr. Spencer Reid, pushing him up against the door of his kitchen and kissing him senseless.

Reid was warm and taut and real in his hold – his hands were grasping Morgan's head, holding him close as they kissed, _kissed_, mouths exploring each other without a trace of decency, tongues slow, demanding – Reid biting at his lip, his bittersweet cinnamon taste a luminous revelation as he_ licked_ Morgan's tongue, hot and needy and bordering on filthy – and Morgan though his fucking head was going to explode.

"Kid," he growled, half a question, half a warning, not quite able to stop kissing the corner of Reid's mouth, tracing his teeth on Reid's bottom lip, claiming – he pinned Reid to the thick wood and pressed full body against him, one hand straying down Reid's side, slow, tracing the line of his hip before hooking in a belt loop. Reid's legs parted just enough to let him nestle in between– Morgan's breath about stopped when he found himself lodged between Reid's thigh, and it was crazy and dangerous and wrong and _God_, so very _right_.

"Shut up," Reid breathed, mouth hot against Morgan as he demanded another kiss, as he licked open Morgan's lips and sucked on Morgan's tongue before proceeding to do some very dirty things with his own, and where the _fuck_ had he learnt to kiss like _that_. Morgan's knees almost buckled under him as the picture of that mouth bestowing its ministrations upon his cock sizzled through his mind, burning every nerve in its wake as it shot straight to his groin. He gritted his teeth, forcing himself to move back, lifting his head from Reid's skin just enough to look at him – "Reid," he said, trying to get his attention as Reid made to follow him, unwilling to let go of his mouth – "_Reid_," he repeated, and it took all his self control not to give in and plunge back into the kiss when Reid lifted his eyes to look at him, a vague pout on his mouth, red and plump and looking thoroughly _edible_. "Do you – " he tried, and had to stop when his voice choked in his throat, cursing himself to eternal damnation. Because Reid's pale cheekbones were tinted red and his hair fell haphazardly on his face, and he was _staring_ at him – half-lidded eyes smoldering and bearing all sorts of dirty promises (God, it should be _illegal_ to look so goddamn _debauched_), and if they stopped now Morgan wasn't sure he would _survive _–

"Morgan – please," Reid whispered, hands clasping forcefully on Morgan's nape as he raked his gaze on Morgan's face, letting it linger for endless instants on his lips before it fluttered back to Morgan's eyes. "_Shut up_. Just…" He looked at him, somehow managing to appear lost and defiant and fucking hot at the same time. Then – slowly, deliberately – he pressed his hips against Morgan's, sending shivers rippling down Morgan's back. He smiled one of those tiny smiles of his, infuriatingly smug – then leaned back against the door, craning his head to the side, the lean line of his neck a stark contrast against the dark wood. And Morgan could do nothing but comply, lowering his head to trace his lips on the warm skin – he kissed Reid's heartbeat, strong and rapid just beneath the skin – he followed the steady pulse of Reid's carotid with his tongue, biting lightly on the soft patch of skin just below his jawline.

It was 10:47, and it was the first time Morgan heard Reid _moan_ – and it had the amazing power to just short circuit his brain _shut_, making his every muscle throb with the burning need of – _more_ – the need to learn the sound of Reid's whimpers, Reid's _gasps_, learn how his name would sound like coming from Reid's lips as he arched back in pleasure, learn what Reid sounded like when he came.

He wouldn't know what time it was when he did learn those things – it was some time later, enough for them to stumble to Morgan's bedroom, bumping into corners because they couldn't seem to stop kissing enough to pay attention to the way – enough for their clothes to end up strewn across the floor, Morgan stopping after every button of Reid's shirt he undid to press kisses to the heated skin he'd bared, trace it with his tongue. He wouldn't know the time when he learnt what it felt like to sink in Reid's body, and push and hold him, tight – to have Reid's hands trace searing lined across his back before grasping his hips, urging him deeper, urging him to thrust harder, _harder, please_ – to have Reid's legs tighten around him as they kissed, frantic and breathless and wet – to have Reid look up at him from beneath sweaty locks, his eyes half lidded and burning with lust and need and plain desire, his mouth parted in a silent, breathless moan as Morgan pushed back into him, again,_ again_ – to taste the sweat in the hollow of Reid's collarbone as he traced it with his tongue and bit down_ hard_, moments before Reid spasmed under him, his muscles rippling as his orgasm was torn from him, hard and luminous and _just_ –

_ooo_

It was 11:01 a.m. of the subsequent Friday, which was thankfully a rare, so very welcome day off – that Morgan found himself sitting at a Starbuck's table, across an unusually silent Doctor Spencer Reid, and decided that he wanted many, many more first times with him.

"I don't think I am – quite sure of what we're doing," Reid was saying, tentatively, as he proceeded to shred in minute stripes the empty sugar packet in his hand – the utter lack of shame and inhibitions of the previous night tucked back in wherever it was normally stored, replaced by the kid's usual shy demeanor. A vague frown was hovering on his forehead, and he couldn't seem to lift his eyes from his paper cup.

Morgan shook his head, slow. His hands rested on the tabletop, ignoring his steaming coffee. "I don't, either," he said. He lifted his gaze on Reid's face, resisting the urge to stare at those familiar lips, that now bore a whole new set of memories – God, the sounds he'd made – the things he could_ do_ with that mouth of his. Morgan repressed a groan, and rubbed a hand on his face.

"Perhaps – we could…" he hesitated. They could take very different paths from here. They could try and forget the evening ever happened, relegate it in a remote corner of their minds and abandon it there, deciding to ignore it until it somehow grew distant and hazy – Morgan doubted he's be able to forget the taste of Reid's skin, or the curve of his pale neck as he arched against Morgan's bed sheets, or the five freckles he'd counted, scattered in a crooked star shape just below Reid's collarbone – but he could try.

They could come to the conclusion that they'd never be able to face each other again – things would get horribly awkward, they'd grow distant and snap at each other and eventually grow so hateful that one would be forced to leave. Or perhaps – perhaps they could give it a try. At – whatever this thing would turn out to be. Perhaps it would be a disaster, shattering their friendship and maybe their careers, too. Or, perhaps…

Reid cleared his throat, and pushed his cup to the side. In front of him, the tabletop was littered with paper stripes. "What if – if we," he said, timidly gazing at Morgan from beneath his lashes. He brushed back his hair, nervous. "If – you know. We tried this – _we_. Thing. I mean…"

He fell silent, a flush rising to his cheekbones – but he refused to lower his eyes, somehow as brave now as every time he's stepped in front of a loaded gun. Morgan remained quiet, not entirely able to speak as he felt something crack in his chest, warm and heavy and soft, allowing him to release the breath he hadn't known he was holding. "I – " he tried to say, and his voice choked somewhere around the knot tying up his throat. He swallowed, feeling a stupidly warm smile crawl up to his lips.

All he could was breathe, and smile like a fool, as he slowly moved his hand forward, resting it palm up on the table. Reid's smile was tiny and luminous as he looked down at Morgan's hand, and cautiously reached forward, too.

It was at 11:26 on a silent, timid winter morning that Morgan held Reid's hand for the first time. It was, by all means, not the last.


End file.
